#lord hater? Idk this is hard to figure out lmao | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

houseofhyde · 1 year

Text

ii. a game of westerosi chess.

pairing. daemon targaryen x fem!reader

synopsis. the six chess pieces in the king’s game and how your uncle calls checkmate. read the first part here !

warnings. niece!reader, targcest, possessiveness, themes of sexual/romantic ownership, alicent slander (im sorry, i love her, but this is daemon’s pov and we all know that man wakes up every morning and makes the conscious decision to be a hater), daemon being a filthy pervert (affectionate), smut ( masturbation, breeding kink, voyeurism, dacriphilia, virgin kink- if that's even a thing-, implied bi!daemon )

word count. 11.3k

taglist. @nyctophilic0vitnir

hyde’s input. yes, i could have just made them get married after the events in part one. no, that wouldn’t be as fun as watching daemon suffer. i went and fucked myself over a little though because i never realised how much i’d struggle to write from his point of view without the fear of making him too out of character or his behaviour feel, idk, fake? empty? idk what the right word is but yeah. i caught the flu and have had sick-brain the whole time while writing this so who knows if the writing is even comprehensible lmao :)

disclaimer: i’ve never played chess (i'm too dumb for that) so pretend any incorrect comparisons are simply because there’s different rules for chess in westeros <3

when daemon targaryen was five years old, no more than a mischievous little babe who haunted the halls of the red keep, there was no one greater in his eyes than his older brother.

his older brother who bonded with the largest dragon; who snuck wine into his cup when the adults were occupied with their political indiscretions; who stood up for him even in times where he was the culprit.

his older brother who had the longest winning streak in the whole of the red keep when it came to chess.

from maesters to the king, and ladies in waiting down to his own mother, there was not a single person within the castle who could face viserys targaryen in the game of strategic moves and walk away undefeated.

it was an understood fact: viserys targaryen was a master at chess.

one day, after catching his younger brother, moon-eyed and fresh-faced from wondering the dragonpit in search of a dragon to claim, and now spying upon his winnings against a pretty maiden, viserys had called the boy over. with daemon captivated by the sight of the chess board, the older of the two felt the cogs in his brain turning, an idea spawning.

you see, when one becomes the best at something, there is no more challenge. no fun to be found when you’re no longer sat at the edge of your seat wondering if this person will finally be the one to best you. and, so, viserys thought if no one else was good enough to beat him, he’d need to create a worthy opponent.

enter onto the scene, daemon targaryen.

with him being but a child still, viserys began his teaching with what captivated the little boy most: the figures which sat atop the checkered board.

“this, brother, is the pawn. it’s the least worthy piece, but do not let that fool you into thinking it is weak, for anyone may wield power if they work hard enough. a pawn may become a queen, just as a fool may become a lord.”

the rogue prince, now a man of three and thirty, awakes with one thing on his mind: his niece.

he’s always been a restless sleeper, not even in dreams would he escape the havoc of his own head and the inner-workings of it. and, though he’d scarcely recall the images his sleeping mind would conjure, the evidence comes in the state he’d find himself in: sprawled diagonally across the bed, the pillows which had once provided rest for his head now scattered along the floor and the bedsheets- which scratched uncomfortably on his skin, a slick of sweat oozing from his pores and leaving him looking glazed, like a freshly cooked hog at a feast- now a wrinkled tangle around his waist, trapping his legs in the cotton confines.

he spies the familiar lick of sunlight casting through the closed curtains, affirming that dawn has indeed passed and a new day is upon him.

running a hand over his face, a disgruntled sound escapes him, sluggishly moving himself to sit up right, that familiar yet new ache in his back flaring up and begging for release in the form of stretching limbs and extended muscles. age has begun to sneak up on him, grabbing him in it’s clutches and reminding the egotistical man that he is just that: a man, not a god, much to his own displeasure.

the hand departs from his face only to pause midair. a smell, heady and musk infused, reaches his nostrils. it’s dirty and grimey in every way yet enticing him to seek it out again, to sniff out wherever the odour is coming from and bury himself in it till he suffocates.

tentatively, he retraces his movements till his fingers dance over his face once again and realisation kicks him like the hoof of a horse, hard and with a lingering pounding.

only, the pounding comes from his crotch rather than his skull.

the smell is you, in all your dribbling, soaking, honeysuckle glory, stained on his skin like the slaves of volantis are stained with ink.

another inhale floods his senses with the memories from last night, replaying the feel of your bodies pressed together in dance, and your hand squeezing his almost painfully tight as he leads the way to your chambers, and the eager spreading of your legs as he at last satisfies his hunger for you- a hunger which had started sometime after you’d first began to present the figure of a woman, all supple breasts and pouting lips and silhouettes made of dresses that hid from view the naughty parts of you your uncle’s cock ached to see.

the voice in his head, which more often than not drives him to behave erratically, this time is but a whisper, a seduction of craving and curiosity that has him slipping his hand further down, brushing over the fine line of his lips and awaiting entrance as he parts his mouth open, brushing his stained digits over his tongue.

a jolt of heat burns down his spine while the sweet tang of your taste invades his senses. like biting through a lemon, the taste should repel him in every way, flood his soul with shame and leave him disgusted in himself.

instead, he licks his tongue in a silent plea for more.

the thought of never bathing again crosses daemon’s mind, unwilling to wash away the evidence of the peak he’d driven you to with nothing but his fingers. gods help the world when he finally gets his cock in you, for he’s likely to become a deranged, dirty shell of a man too busy getting fill after fill of your pulsing cunny to ever plunder himself into the oil-infused waters of a bath.

you’d be so sweet for him, a little harlet for him to mold and bend and break into every which-way he desires you. and it’s that thought, plus the taste of your dried essence, which has the rogue prince’s cock stirring beneath the tangled sheets.

desire awakens much like a dragon would: slowly and, then, all at once, eyes wide, chest huffing and puffing, and body arising from the ground.

the prince kicks the tangled sheets off, no thought given to whatever corner in the chambers he tosses them towards, eyes and hand and mind too focused on the once flacid organ between his leg growing more solid and red in the tip as the moments pass.

“fuck...” he means to only think it, yet speaks it aloud into the solace of the room as the warmth of his hand makes itself familiar with his cock.

he gives himself a tug, dry hand meeting the movement with resistance yet the layer of skin which conceals his soon-to-be seed soaked slit retracts enough to allow the blushing head of his cock to poke through. while he’d typically prefer to wet it with a whore’s cunt, or slicken it with whatever mindless ointment he could find laying around, daemon finds himself gathering his own saliva and spitting a fat drop of it into the palm of his hand.

the glide of his digits over the organ becomes easier, allowing him to work himself into full-blown hardness, cock taking over the use of his brain and sending him into a state of restless lust, demanding to be fed and satiated with the emptying of his stones, preferably into the warm, pulsating, tight cunt of his little dove.

while the prince does debate his ability to throw on a robe- or, even, roam the halls in his nude glory- and seek out your likely sleeping form, to watch as you startle awake with the breaking of your maidenhead and cry out for your uncle to fill you with his spend till you’re swelling with his bastard, he decides he prefers the thought of making you wait a little longer, see how much he can test the limits of your impatient desires.

after all, a maiden always feels best when her cunt’s as soaked as her crying eyes and her mouth’s spewing plead after plead, begging for his cock.

while one hand works over himself, the other sneaks it’s way back into his mouth, lust bursting into bright colours as he licks over the taste of you, soaking it into his bloodstream and making you part of his genetics- just as he is part of yours.

daemon allows his eyes to slip shut, sinking into sweet fantasies and mental pictures of bouncing tits and blood stained sheets, only to reopen them within an instant at the sound of his chamber door slamming against the solid wall.

“oh my!” a young girl dressed in rags turns her back on him as quickly as she notices his naked form, as if allowing him to compose himself and make himself presentable. “i’m so sorry, my prince! i would have knocked but he said i should simply let myself in!”

daemon makes no attempt to find cover.

“do whatever it is you need to do.” he speaks with a tone far too relaxed for a man who’s still got a grip on his cock. if anything, the raggedness in his breaths comes from his frustrations of losing the flavour of you on his tongue. “don’t stop on my account.”

she hesitates upon facing him again, eyes clearly wandering off from her own commands and glancing down at his exposed crotch more times than he imagines she’s comfortable with. from the look of her, she’s young in age- likely only recently blossomed into a woman- and, at the thought of his being the first cock she’s ever seen, he feels himself grow closer to his peak, a sick and twisted satisfaction buzzing through his veins at the possibility of giving the sweet girl her first sense of visual arousal.

when the shock passes, yet still lingers in her features like a harsh cough irritates the throat, she makes her way fully into the room. in her arms, a tray with a mass of food, enough to feed a lord and his men for several nights. without a word, she lays the assortment out on the large table within his chambers, hands shaking under her own nerves.

meanwhile, daemon slows the flick of his own wrist, teasing his cock with the impending satisfaction. a smile, too faint to be seen yet present enough that he feels the slight stretch of his lips, births itself as he considers who this offering of a feast may be from.

“what’s this about, girl?” he throws the question out into the air, clear amusement in his tone.

“the king, my prince.” just as he expected. “he’s ordered this be sent to you.”

and so it begins, he thinks.

his brother is buttering him up, showing a sign of good-will to have daemon in his good graces when he orders the rogue prince betroths himself to the king’s pretty daughter, her supposed virtue now a pile of crumbled ruins in the eyes of the court. as if he needs convincing to take such a sweet young thing to wife, the perfect little bird made of blonde hair, valyrian blood, sugar-coated cum and the sweetest song of whimpers and pleas.

“then make sure you let my brother know how eager i am to receive his feast.” he can feel himself reaching the edge of his peak, tethering off the edge and seconds away from painting his hand white with wasted seed.

perhaps the serving girl will lick it clean for him.

“of course, my prince.” once finished with the arranging of the feast, the maiden straightens out some wrinkles in her skirt- though it does nothing to clean up her looks- and begins to make her way back toward the entry to his chambers. “the king will be surprised to see you so agreeable, though it will help soothe his unease, my lord.”

“his... unease?” daemon’s movements stop, the air runs dry and the girl visibly stiffens, hand curling around the door handle and clenching it as if it is the only thing giving her support.

clearly, she’s said something she shouldn’t have.

“i must go, my lord.”

“unease over what, girl?”

“you... you don’t know, do you?” she’s beginning to irritate him, speaking in riddles and shaking like a leaf in the winds of winter.

“answer me clearly or i’ll have your tongue.” the girl can not see the way he moves off the bed, nor the way he spies his eyes towards his trusted sword propped against a wall, but she certainly hears the loud thud of his feet meeting the floor, feels the darker shift of energy in the room as the rogue prince makes a threatening advance towards her.

“ser gerold royce, my prince...” he’s near certain she lets out a pathetic whimper, like a wounded doe. “he’s proclaimed himself as lord of runestone.”

the world comes to a stand still as her words flood over him.

while the prince is frozen in his spot, face an empty canvas devoid of emotion, the young girl makes a swift exit, wise enough to not wish to stick around long enough to bare witness to the hot-headed prince’s reaction. the slamming of the door on her way out seems to startle him back into motion, naked limbs striding across the room and grabbing at the door. he twists the handle and gives a harsh tug, strong enough to have the wood smash as it collides against the wall.

the door does not open.

he attempts again, and again, and again, and is met with the same resistance each time. only then does it dawn on him- the feast, the unease- this was never about his brother keeping him in his good graces.

this was about the king keeping him locked away in his chambers.

“next, you’ve got your knight. while still not a very point-worthy piece, this holds power in the way it moves, jumping over pawns like a real knight slices through his enemies with the point of his sword.”

four days pass by slowly within the confines of his chambers.

at first, he rages. pacing the floor till the plush carpeting runs thin, hacking away at hand-crafted furniture his ancestors had sat upon and broken fast at, mouth dropped open in a bellow of impassioned words of all the things he plans to do once he gets his hands on his older brother, most of which start and end with his grip on the king’s neck.

then, he tries rest.

it’s a hopeless attempt, though, as the thoughts are running far too rampant for him to ignore the fact he’s confined within his room, not a clue of what his brother has done in regards to runestone’s rebellion. then come the thoughts of you, his little dove, likely hurt, and confused, and needing your dear uncle’s guidance on how to continue onward, how to outsmart the wretched ladies within your father’s court, how to ensure you do not wind up married off to some boring oaf of a lord, with not a drop of valyrian blood in his veins.

after sleep evades him, and rage consumes him once more, he switches to pleasuring himself, hand squeezed tight around his cock and working over the sex organ till he’s completely spent, his sack drained and nothing but pathetic droplets of seed painting his skin by the eight, ninth, tenth peak he drives himself too, fuelling the fire of his lust with past rendevouz- the pentoshi whore he’d fucked in front of her own husband, the nights he’d spent in the streets of silk in rooms where cups and cunts were shared amongst the crowd, the young knight who’d sought him out after a tourney and cried out as daemon stretched the tight pink hole of his arse- and with future desires- the slapping of his stones against your pearl as he takes you from behind, your pretty eyes struggling back tears the first time he fucks his cock into your silky wet hole, the sick, and nasty, and down-right degenerate want to bend you over the small council table and shoot his seed into your womb for all those wrinkled cunts to bare witness to.

ultimately, it’s the memory of how you taste that sends him spiralling for a tenth time.

the rogue prince is a sexual deviant, that was the very first whisper that had flooded the keep about him. and oh how he’s worn it with pride over the years, a twisted joy found in watching their outrage each time he speaks of crass and acts on sin.

even so, there is only so much he can take until he reaches his limit. and, thus, with his cock feeling like it may fall off if he does not give it some recovery time, the prince returns to raging.

that is how the king finds him, sword in hand and the expensive fabrics that once made up the curtains leading onto a balcony now nothing but tattered rags on the floor.

“i must say, daemon, this takes me back.” viserys’ tone carries amusement, which licks at daemon’s ire and coaxes it back to life, hand gripping the hilt of his sword as the prince reminds himself- despite how infuriating the king may be- that he cares deeply for his older brother. “me entering your chambers and finding you amidst a temper tantrum.”

the prince is quick on his feet, turning on his ankle till he finds himself gazing upon the face of his brother. he’s dressed in his finest robes, a mixture of reds and blacks, yet daemon does not miss the green jewel on one of his fingers. the crown upon viserys’ head reflects the sun, shining offensively in the prince’s face as if to more harshly remind him of the inheritance he’ll never claim, the throne he’ll never sit.

“what is the meaning of this?” daemon bellows and instinctively raises dark sister, the tip of the blade pointed directly at his brother.

the sound of kingsguards drawing their own weapons floods the room yet the raise of viserys’ hand halts them all in their defence, calling his brother’s bluff.

“i had some business to attend to.” the king speaks so casually, as though he’s discussing the recent weather or what he’d eaten for his supper the evening before.

“so you imprison me in my chambers as if i am some ill-behaved child!” daemon means to question him yet his words come out as more of a statement, an acceptance of the matter at hand.

“yes, well, what kind of idiot would i be to let my brother wander free in my castle while i’m grasping at straws to prevent a war?” the room grows more tense with every exchanged word between the two brothers, a feat which doesn’t go unnoticed by the guards who stand by the king nor the maidens who had rushed in after the reopening of daemon’s chambers, scrambling around to tidy the place up. “a war which you started in the first place.”

it irks something in daemon, the way viserys remains level headed whilst he’s pacing the room, and gripping his sword, and releasing his frustrations in bursts of loud voices and disgruntled grunts. condescending in every way, it sends daemon into a headspace where he’s no longer a man-grown and, instead, a tear-stained child being reprimanded by his king and grandsire.

he liked to torture young daemon who, despite his best efforts, was always prone to outbursts of emotion- outbursts the old man liked to meet with calmed expressions and tired words of disappointment, dismissing his grandson to bed.

it seems to be a commonality shared among kings, antagonising daemon.

“a war i started?!” and yet he falls for the trap every time, meeting viserys’ passive with his aggressive, striding those few steps closer till he’s a hair away from touching the king with his blade. still, his brother holds off his guards. “and how do you suppose i done such a thing while being imprisoned!?”

“cool it with the theatrics, brother,” viserys punctuates his exhaustion with an eye roll and gives a single nod of his head, giving the kingsguards the go-ahead to swarm around daemon.

a pair of them, both young in their knighthood and matching in face, grab at the rogue prince’s arms and hold him in a stand-still while another guard plucks the weapon from his hand. daemon shoves against their hold and is met with more resistance.

dark sister is passed among the guards, each hand that touches it being added to a tally of people on daemon’s list of men to disembowel. finally, viserys holds the weapon, examining it like it is the very first time he’s seen it.

“daemon, it brings me no joy to do this,” the king starts up again, eyes meeting the glaring amethysts of his brother. “but with the tensions arising and war creeping over the horizon, i can not afford to risk anything going amiss.”

“get to the point, brother. you’re speaking in rhyme as if you were some bard.”

“very well. from now until i decide you are not a threat to this kingdom, your confinement will be stretched from your chambers to the red keep. you are to carry no weapon and you will step no foot out of this castle.”

“you’re a fool if you think i’ll agree to this.”

“it is an order from your king!” viserys lets the mask slip, intentionally or not, and his irritation shines through like the stars paint themself across the dark sky. “and if that’s not enough to keep you in line, you will also be monitored at all hours of the day, every move you make within these walls will be shadowed by that of a knight of my choosing.”

daemon targaryen considers murdering his brother.

“and i see no man more fit for the job than ser criston cole.”

for the first time in his life, daemon targaryen may just go through with it.

“the bishop may be similar to the knight in it’s point count, yet it moves differently. while a knight can not move three times in the same direction, a bishop must stay within the colour it started in. think of a bishop like a maester: chained to an oath it can never break”

he’d rather be forced to endure a lifetime of self-flagellation than another moment of this conversation.

“it is in your best interest, your grace, to cut this state of anarchy out from it’s roots before any other houses chose to follow in the footsteps of runestone.” the new hand of the king is certainly an improvement from the hightower cunt, daemon can’t deny it. yet a part of him feels the knife of betrayal twist deeper into his back upon realising his brother had not only ignored his own warnings of the green lord till rhaenyra brought them up too, but he’d once again given the role to a random lord in his court rather than his own brother. “we have cause to believe that the dandarrions may be next to follow, given the less than kind words your daughter had for them during her tour for a marriage.”

“then there is the matter with the lannisters and, of course, the never ending tensions with the dornish folk. they’re more weary than ever, since someone,” maester mellos has never been a subtle man, despite all his supposed wits and knowledge, and so it flies over no one’s head when he takes a glance at the rogue prince and his standing guard, the insufferable man who’s made himself daemon’s shadow. “went to war with the triarchy.”

“my apologies for riding you all of that tyrant crabfeeder!” daemon speaks for the first time since he’d been forced to sit at the small council. “i’ll be sure to stand by and allow the next one to rip you all to pieces.”

daemon drowns out the rest of the meeting, uninterested in hearing his brother grovel at ways to keep his subjects at bay, as though they are the ones that rule over him.

gifts of gold for the dandarrion, a knighting for the lannisters’ youngest lords, peace-offerings in the forms of poetic words, and sweetened fruits, and lavish silks for the dornish. each gift more empty than the last.

it’s the mention of your name that brings him back into the room.

“were she here, we could have used her as a bargaining plea for one of these stronger houses,” ser lyman beesbury is the one who speaks and, with each word, the rest of the councilmen grow wider in the eyes and stiffer in their seats.

daemon explains their otherwise odd reactions away with them simply feeling uncomfortable discussing you in his presence, everything changed and nothing the same since sometime between the night he had you pressed against your door and his confinement within the keep.

upon release back into the castle, he’d searched for you first of all, paying no mind to criston cole as the knight struggled to keep up with his rushed footfall, mind too focused on the renewed anger he wished to placate with his cock in your mouth and the further destruction of your purity, all in the name of spiting your father.

when he’d reached your chambers, however, he’d found nothing but a mess of emptied trunks and an unkept bed.

“the princess is not here.” ser criston had spoken between gasps of air, chest heaving beneath the unnecessary layers of chainmail and armor his position forces him to wear.

daemon had demanded an answer for your whereabouts, only to quickly realise the knight was none-the-wiser. it was the new hand, ultimately, that clued him in, over sips of wine and looks of caution from other council-men amid a private feast.

“driftmark, prince daemon.” he’d dabbed at the corners of his mouth with poise and composure, everything about the man seemingly perfected for politics, serving only to irritate the prince further. “the princess has accompanied her older sister and her new husband on their trip to laenor velaryon’s home.”

that was the last daemon had heard of you.

a near moon later and you were still out of reach, likely turning your nose at the smell of salt that coated the walls of the velaryon household and wondering why a certain red-speckled dragon had yet to swoop in on the island, carrying the cause and answer to all your problems upon it’s back.

“dare i say i agree, your grace,” another of the men chimes in, his words barely a whisper at first, glancing nervously toward the king. “perhaps we may write for her return and see to it that a betrothal be made.”

daemon chooses to observe viserys in this moment, eyes trailing over his features and taking note of every wrinkle in his brow, every greyed hair within his unshaven face, every upturn and scorn of his lip. there’s a wave of unease that’s fallen over his brother, and it only grows with every moment that the lords speak of you in the rogue prince’s presence, the air thick with the discussion the two brother’s had yet to have regarding the rumours of your deflowering.

“and, tell me, my lords, what you suggest we tell the princess’ current betrothed?” maester mellos, ever incapable of holding his tongue, barks across the table, deathly unaware of the looks that befall the council nor the tensing of daemon’s shoulders. “the king is trying to avoid war, not further instigate one by implying her current betrothal is not good enough, that house-”

“that’s enough!” the king rises from his chair all at once, slamming his hand down on the table and commanding the attention of everyone in the room, more so when he recoils in pain. all at once, the rumours of his declining health and the effect it’s had on his body feel all too true. “there will be no further discussions of my daughter nor the prospect of a new betrothal. what’s done is done and i will not go back on my word to appease your fear-mongering speculations. we will continue our diplomatic relationship with these houses and ensure they do good to remember who sits the iron throne.”

the men obey like sheep, each bowing their head and mumbling false reconciliations.

one by one, they all take their leave.

first, lyman beesbury, who with pale face and solemn eyes lays apologies at visery’s feet. next, the master of laws and maester mellos, neither of them wasting time with niceties and opting for a mere bow towards their king. when all the chairs lay empty, save for daemon’s and the king, silence runs thick through the room. neither brother moving, each testing their unnamed opponent and awaiting the first blow through the tension to be made.

daemon grows impatient.

“unless corlys velaryon fucked a new son into our lady cousin and had the babe birthed in a matter of days, i do wonder who you’ve betrothed my niece to on driftmark.”

“do you know what your problem is, daemon?” though viserys’ words come out with inquisitory tones, he leaves no space for the prince to answer. “you’re so busy with your own schemes and plans that you fail to see when you’re the one being played.”

daemon feels small.

for a moment, he’s no longer a man grown into a soldier, with a mighty sword and a fearsome dragon. instead, he’s frail and weak, and staring across at his older brother as he beats him once more in the game of knights and checkered spaces, a taunting look on his face as he knocks over the little boy’s king piece and declares himself victor.

when the moment passes, he straightens his posture and rises from his seat, and reminds himself of the words his mother would comfort her crying babe with each time he failed to win, whispers of how there’s always something to be gained in any loss he finds.

he settles with leading his brother further into the trap of rumours him and his niece have conjured up together.

“i hear your new wife is fond of the seven, brother.” the prince reaches to grip the hilt of his sword, only to find an empty space and the reminder that he carries no weapon as of late. “ask her to pray for your daughter, i don’t believe she tasted the bitterness of moon tea after our evening together.”

the king does not call daemon’s bluff.

“this right here? the rook, worth more than the bishop or knight, yet less than the king or queen, it is an allusive piece. play the game wisely and your rook may trap the king, leaving it with nowhere to run.”

with the passing of another moon, daemon plunders deeper into insanity.

he’s always been a man of possession, the kind who owns and conquers and takes. objects, lands, people. they’re all the same in daemon’s chequebook of ownership. and, while living a rather messy and unkept life, he enjoys the pleasantness of having his possessions in his line of sight, like the sword he’s worn at his hip since the old king bestowed it upon him, or the seating he takes at every royal feast, chair angled perfectly to keep his eyes on the brother, nieces, family he possesses.

with dark sister out of reach and his most recent favoured family member out of sight- the pretty niece he’s silently layed his claim on-, destruction is imminent.

no longer does he debate with his own inner-turmoil over if he will go against the king’s orders but, rather, he questions when.

when will he redeem his previous loss against ser criston cole, beat the knight to the ground and steal his weapon as he lays unconscious?

when will he slip through the cracks in the castle walls, making use of the secretive halls built by maegor the cruel himself and slice through any guard who may attempt to get in his way?

when will he take the skies atop his fire-breathing mount, fleeing the city of whispering cunts and chees-playing fools?

the answer to each questions comes back to one thing, one person, one possession he needs to locate first.

you.

the events to follow the council meeting had lead him to several conclusions.

the first, and most obvious one, was that you clearly were not on driftmark, as lord strong had so boldly claimed. the second took him a few sleeps to fully decide upon but, remembering the words spoken of your betrothal among the council men and the apparent greater houses they could have given your hand to, daemon crossed off the possibility of you being in winterfell, the young stark lord likely too prideful to entertain the king’s earlier propositions of marriage after the way you’d left him amid a feast to go and- falsely rumoured- fuck your uncle.

with the dandarrions, the lannisters and the dornish folk already ruled off the list, it left daemon with few options.

his strongest lead is the baratheons, a long-standing connection between the two houses and a recently widowed lord who’s previous wife had gifted nothing but girls from her womb, it took no genius to assume a targaryen bride would serve him well.

daemon will soon find out he's wrong.

there’s an unease that takes over someone’s chambers the moment they notice something has been tampered with, whether it be as silly as a glass moved a few inches across a table or something as significant as a chest of drawers laying open when they’d clearly been left shut.

it tickles the back of the prince’s neck this very evening, skin rising to mimic that of a goose as he trails his eyes over his surroundings.

he’d returned to his chambers later than usual this evening, the day spent cornering council-men and threatening them- daemon had quickly discovered they feared him less with no blade to slice through them and his own personal minder at his back, that ridiculous kingsguard armour reflecting every ray of sun and every burn of candlelight.

daemon had taken to tormenting the poor ser crispin only a matter of days into their forced companionship. he figured that, if he may no longer seek joy in the streets of silk or the bloodshed of his enemies, let him at least take pleasure in the squirming discomfort of a man he loathes entirely.

“my niece,” he’d spoke as the two sat through their usual quiet supper together. “did you enjoy fucking her?”

“i did not fuck princess y/n.”

“well, of course not,” daemon pushed his spoon back and forth, passing time while he thought up his next taunt. “my younger niece has always had the more refined taste out of the two of them. rhaenyra, on the other hand, well she’d fuck a hound if it licked her the right way.”

“all this from a man who preys on his own blood for his sexual deviance. you and i both know what you done to your niece, how you seduced such a-”

“my nieces have always seemed so alike. both pale haired, both sharing the same smile, both wearing the same dresses.” the knight and the prince had long abandoned their food now, discussion heavy with daemon’s accusation of ser criston abandoning his own vows and committing what he can only imagine would be declared treason, deflowering a princess. perhaps soon the two will share something in common. “now i wonder if they feel the same. you must know, so tell me, did rhaenyra’s cunt grip your pathetic cock in a vice that threatened to ruin any other woman for you? or is that a trait only my youngest niece possesses?”

even now, hours into the late night and several more cups of wine drowning in his system, daemon can not bite back a dry laugh as he recalls the astound look upon the knight’s face, a mixture of disgust and discomfort.

he’s seated- more accurately speaking, he’s draped- upon a chaise, muscles tense and mind racing, in need of distraction. most of his nights end like this now, several emptied pitchers of wine along the floor, red staining his mouth and his own figure collapsed over whatever surface he finds first. occasionally, he’d attempt to have his way with a serving girl, ignoring the looks of ser criston as he stands guard outside his chambers and watches the prince enter with his partner for the evening, yet most were dismissed before daemon could satisfy himself, a mixture of his own drunken incontinence and their far too placid natures.

at least the whores of the silk street make him believe they want him.

letting out a groan, he sinks further into the seat, legs bent at the knee and feet planted firmly on the ground as he lets himself lay back fully. he’s contemplating taking rest here for the evening, and weighing the likely-hood of awakening with a new pain in his neck.

it would certainly be a more comfortable sleep than the would he’d taken last night, back slumped against a wall and body sat atop the cool marbled floor.

he makes his choice, limbs too tired to make the few paces to his bed, and resigns himself for the night, twisting once more to find the most comfortable position upon the chaise and closing his eyes.

only to reopen them instantly.

something rustles. that feeling of unease creeps in once again, slow like fog over the horizon, hazy and threatening, and cold in every sense of the word. someone has been in his chambers, is in his chambers, and they’ve left something askew.

his eyes dart over the room, trying to assess every nook and corner and crevice within it in hopes of spotting a pair of spying eyes or unsettled objects. struggling due to all the blind spots his position has created, daemon heaves himself back into the upright position, figure slouched and back curved uncomfortably.

the rustling happens again.

he shoots up from his seat, wondering if his inebriated state has begun to create delusions, or if the psychosis caused by staring at the same red walls of the keep nonstop has finally begun to take over. he must be going mad, he thinks, eyes scanning over the whole of his room as he turns in place, cursing the more he notices nothing out of the ordinary.

until he sees it.

there, placed exactly where his tired limbs had been mere moments ago, lays a note.

it’s folded over and sporting a strange yellow blotch in one of it’s corners while, in the centre, written in the blackest ink so delicately and flowery it near stirs his cock in his breeches, kepus.

he snatches at the paper, near tearing it in two with the speed he unfolds it, eyes racing over every scribble and every swirl of pretty inked words.

the rain is the only thing that brings me comfort these days.

the letter begins and, while the writer has still not identified themselves, the prince is more than certain he knows who is speaking.

i’ve never been a fan of change (i’m sure you recall my horrid tantrums as a child whenever my mother assigned me a new handmaiden), yet never have i faced one so large. where in the capital i spent my days with books and needles and rides upon dragon’s back, here i am told to sit quiet as a mouse, as though i am merely another ornament within the lord’s home. where i once spent nights rolling my eyes and wishing to be excused from public feasts, here i cry and ache for a morsel of socialising outside the lord’s inner circle. where once i slept sound over the small folk screaming and cheering into the late night, here i sit awake by the window and listen to each raindrop.

i am not built for the cold, both in weather and in people. they frighten me here, which is a thing i never thought i’d need admit to. there are no whispers here, only silence. but their eyes, they speak paragraphs of hatred and disdain and ill-intentions with a simple glance. i need not worry if they will eat me alive here, but rather whom will be the one to do so. in the capital i’ve always felt untouchable, first because i was my father’s daughter, a princess of the realm, and, when that began to lose effect, you stepped in and taught me safety can be found in another, with your advice and your combat training and your inability to let me fall asleep without you on my mind.

i’ve developed a sick obsession for you, uncle, and it is entirely your fault.

he’s sunk back onto the chaise, hand gripping the letter tighter as a mixture of worry and anger stirs up in his loins. worry over the tales you tell, anger for the possibility of this being a sick game, a note written by some pathetically bored serving wench aiming to ruffle some feathers.

he decides he must keep reading to uncover the truth.

and so, now, it is with heavy heart that i must admit i’m disappointed. don’t perceive me as foolish, for i am wiser than some maiden who believes the things i feel for you to be love. but i always believed there was understanding between us, two different souls yet so completely immersed and knowing of each other’s drives and needs. even when i was a child, you were always the first to notice once i was too tired to continue with the festivities or when i craved the thrill of sneaking down to the dragonpit to spy upon the great beasts. i thought you’d understand, too, that this is not the life i wishfor: a husband with the personality of a wet piece of parchment and a life of silence and gloom.

i am a dragon, just like my sister, and my father, and our ancestors. and a dragon can not grow in a cage, so why have you let them put me in one? you agreed to help me, to ruin me for any other lord so that my father would have no option to but to wed us, leaving us both to our own devices. you, gaining that valyrian wife you always wanted while not changing your whorish ways, and i, earning the freedom i would not find shackled to some low achieving, overbearing, egotistical man. yet i now have a betrothed who’s hair is brown and who’s house has no dragon.

i will risk writing this only once, for the spiders may not spin their thread here but they still bite, and ask this of you: speak sense into my father. tell him i’m with child, tell him i’m a threat to the realm, tell him i’m plotting my own death. tell him any lie you need to put a stop to this betrothal and bring me home, to where i belong.

or, outsmart him and simply come rescue me yourself, like some knight on his white stallion (caraxes would likely singe my hair off if i ever dared call him such a thing in his presence).

i’ll be awaiting your next move, uncle. be sure you play wisely and don’t lose both your princess and your king.

coldest regards,

your little dove.

p.s. i have cum to learn that, while my fingers are indeed skilled, they are nowhere near as good as yours were, kepus.

the intensity behind the stare he holds the note under may just set it alight.

no longer does he doubt who could have written such a thing, the mentions of your joint ploy to deceive the courtiers and the wording used to describe the connection shared between you both marking the undeniable truth of the letter’s author.

perversion brings him to reread the final sentence, mind fully registering them and flooding him with pink hued paintings of his pretty niece, as nude as the day you were born, now flushed skin and hardened nipples and honey dripping down your thighs as your dainty hands fail to fuck themselves as deeply as his had.

daemon can’t help but wonder what his little dove must think of in moments of self-pleasure, questions of whether you were depraved enough to think of men doing unspeakable things to you or if you merely blush over the memory of your uncle.

reading over the last part two more times, his eyes scatter back up the page- first, in an effort to avoid having to deal with his own impending arousal, and then because he feels compelled to read over the letter once more, eyes scanning over every detail.

it takes an unknown number of reads for him to notice a code among the words, a subtleness of ink layered to appear harsher, darker, more noticeable than the other words upon the parchment.

i’m, where, you, once, were.

i’m where you once were.

an inexplicable sense of pride comes over him, the fact his little dove has found a way to tell him something whilst, simultaneously, telling him nothing. were your worries true of spiders and the risk of one of them reading this letter in the time it took to reach him, he doubts any of them would be wise enough to notice the message, much less decipher it’s meaning.

and, while he applauds your display of wits, he despises his own inability to comprehend it. if you are where he once was, where had he been?

just about everywhere in the seven kingdoms, is the unfortunate truth.

by the time sleep at lasts takes over him, daemon has gained two things: the letter you’ve sent and the unbreakable will to move in on the king at last.

“the objective of chess is to protect your king while attacking your opponent’s. you must back the king into a corner, leave him with no way out, place him in check. only then will you be able to call checkmate and win.”

daemon nudges the knight with his foot.

as they’d sat for supper that evening, the prince had felt doubtful of the contents in the vial. he’d pinched it from the grand maester himself and, though he payed no real coins, the prince would argue he payed a grater price: feigning interest in conversing with old crone. a near three hours he’d sat, listening to the man drone on and on, till at last he’d excused himself to relieve his bladder and left daemon with a window of opportunity, his ointments and medicine all in a neat little display.

having little time, he’d grabbed at what he was sure to be milk of the poppy- a significantly smaller dose remaining within the vial compared to the rest- and tucked it in his trousers, at last excusing himself from the bore of a lifetime.

it wasn’t difficult to slip the liquid into a cup of wine, nor was it particularly hard to convince ser criston to drink from it, inviting the knight to join in on his empty toast towards the hightower queen and yet another pregnancy.

hours later and ser crispin lays slumped over outside his door.

daemon gives one more nudge for safety and, when the man merely slouches even closer to the ground, he grabs at the knight’s weapon and nestles it in his own scabbard, making use of it for the first time in two moons.

the hour is late and most of the keep have given in to the temptations of rest, yet the prince still travels the halls with caution, one eye looking over his shoulder. he half expects every guard he passes to seize him on sight, spewing some nonsense of his wrongful weapon or non-permitted solitude. with luck he reaches his destination, no one to spy upon the way he enters into the emptied library nor to witness as he shoves a bookcase aside and steps into the tunnel.

his memory serves him well, even after all these years, navigating himself through the interconnected secrets of the keep. he passes rooms of lords laid in bed with women they do not call wife, and ladies disrobing for the evening, and the still empty chambers of his little dove, till, at last, he reaches where he wants to be, not bothering with patience before barging his way out of the tunnel and into the regal chambers of the king.

“it took you longer than i expected.” daemon had counted on his brother being the one wearing shock upon his face, yet it is the prince who plays the fool, stepping into the room to find his older brother sat at a table, goblet in hand and a familiar checkered board in front of him.

it irks him to hear the king even imply he’d been expecting his arrival.

“don’t you have a wife to be bedding, brother?” he steps deeper into the chambers with caution, eyes on the empty bed and the lack of sight of his brother’s breeding mare.

“pregnancy, daemon. it works wonders on a woman’s body,” he takes a sip of his drink before reaching to pour a second cup meant for the prince. “it’s just a shame one of those wonders comes in the form of my wife snoring louder than a lion roars.”

it’s strange to hear his brother discuss details of his new bride.

daemon had never sought answers for their marriage, yet he’d forever questioned what had driven his brother to marry such a girl, childhood friend of his eldest daughter and so clearly lacking the backbone needed to stand up for herself against the injustices forced against her by her own father. were the prince a more gentle person at heart, perhaps he’d find it in him to pity her.

instead, he sees her as just another thorn in his brother’s side, waiting for the chance to poison his mind and seat one of her wretched babes upon the throne.

“come, come,” dragging him out of his thoughts is viserys once more, now half-hovering over the table and moving his limbs back and forth, hands carefully placing each piece upon it’s designated checker. “sit down! let us play!”

only as he’s seated across from viserys does he notice he’s been bestowed with playing the blacks on the board. never before was he allowed, the older of the two always insisting black was his lucky colour and refusing to play the whites.

in truth, daemon has always suspected his brother had been to fearful to play white, not knowing how to make a good first move and relying on his opponent to instead kickstart the game and give him places to move his pieces.

“isn’t it a beautiful board?” the elder must confuse his staring as a sign of fascination, gawking at the splendour of it. “it’s the very same one mother gifted me after i bested her for the first time.”

there it is, that familiar lick of envy, a sick and cruel twist in his guts as he stares down at an object viserys gets to remember their parents by, while all daemon ever got was disapproving looks and half-hearted embraces. perhaps the rumours are true and the prince has a complex which forces him to pity himself, to cast a shadow upon his own image and declare that it was a wrong forced upon him by others.

or, more likely, the consequences of watching his parents prop viserys up on a mantelpiece whilst leaving him in a corner to collect dust had lead him down the path to the destructive man he’s become.

even when he’d claimed caraxes, he could only imagine what his father’s reaction would have been, were he still alive to witness it.

impressive, but your brother claimed the greatest dragon to have ever lived, the one who the great conqueror rode upon and forged a throne under the black dread’s flames.

“‘tis exactly the same as any other chess board, brother.” he lets petty feelings spin lies on his tongue, rolling his eyes and disregarding the clear etherealness, the intricate carvings on each piece and the extravagant linings of the board, and each of it’s shimmering onyx and quartz squares.

daemon downs half his cup in one sip, eyes trained on his brother’s first move.

king’s pawn forward two spaces, a strong start and an immediate attack to the centre.

it’s fitting, daemon thinks, for this to be the first move his brother makes while leading a game. while a powerful start, it’s rather obvious, one he’d seen viserys defeat in a manner of mere seconds. perhaps age has taken away his astute mind and skill for the game.

daemon retaliates, moving one of his bishop’s pawns forward two spaces.

with the crease that forms in viserys’ brow, daemon delights. his brother was not expecting him to move in such a way, likely expecting him to do something erratic like bringing his queen’s pawn forward.

the pair continue to move in silence, sips of wine and scratching of pieces echoing around the chambers. it’s deceivingly peaceful, nothing like the confrontation the rogue prince had geared himself up to walk into. while he’d awaited bursts of anger and scathing accusations and marks of betrayal, the two sit like children once more, moving empty objects in an imitation of politics.

the only difference is daemon appears to have the upper hand, a growing collecting of white pieces stored to the right of his long-ago emptied and refilled cup.

as always, it’s daemon who takes the first bite.

“i’m afraid i must pay you your dues, brother.” his words slip through his own smirking lips, satisfaction rolling in by the hundreds as he spies the white king, slowly losing places to hide on the board. “it’s truly applaudable how you managed to not only secure one daughter a marriage amid questions of her virtue, but two! young helaena will follow in her half-sisters’ footsteps, surely.”

viserys’ hand pauses mid-air, his remaining bishop held in his grasp. his grip tightens with each passing second. the older has always been more level-headed, that no one can dispute, but the rogue prince will forever swear up and down, high and low, that it is his brother who carries the more foul temper.

viserys’ anger is just harder to weed out from behind false niceties and calmed breathing.

“if you mean to say that helaena will be so lucky as to marry a noble man, filled with honour,” he lays his bishop down at last, not managing to capture any of daemon’s blacks. “then yes, i should hope so. both the betrothal of my eldest daughter and my middle-born were to good men, faithful lords. my helaena will be lucky to do the same.”

“you never did quite tell me about y/n’s betrothal, brother.” the king chuckles at daemon’s words, empty amusement in the obvious statement the prince makes. still, he makes no attempt to stop him, letting him string the conversation along to the dreaded topic between them: the rumours of what daemon had done to you. “last i spoke with her, she was rather... occupied with something other than the prospect of marriage. when you announced her future union to her, did she drop on her knees and kiss your feet in gratitude? or did she spit at you and-”

“did she drop on her knees for you?” the raise in viserys’ voice is minimal yet enough to have daemon smirking over the rim of his cup, amused to see his brother being led into his trap for once.

he makes his next move on the board fist, plucking his knight and moving it over one of his own pawns. if he plays is cards right, messes with his brother’s head just the right amount, perhaps he won’t notice how he’s moving in on his king.

his only hope is to keep talking about his little dove.

“so that’s what you wish to discuss, brother? how it felt to fuck your young daughter?” for the first time he speaks the lie out loud, no hiding behind innuendos nor insinuations. they need to believe you’ve stolen my virtue, kepus, were the words you’d whispered to him, face still fresh from dried tears and teeth stained purple with the wine he’d let you sip from his glass late into the night as the rest of the world had slept, they need to think that you fucked me. he’d sworn an oath to you, to put on a show and ruin you beneath the judgement of others. he’ll be damned if viserys becomes an exception to this oath. “because i can go into detail, you needn’t beg. i can tell you of how it felt to have her squeeze around my cock, and how she arched that little back like a cat, spine curving deeper each time i pounded into her. i can tell you of how she begged for her uncle, her kepus, to shoot his spend into her aching womb and-”

a screech rings out as viserys’ chair flies backwards, the king rising to a stand and glaring down at his brother, who only sinks deeper into the velvet lined seat and allows himself another sip of his glass, face painted in pure amusement as viserys’ reflects that of an angered dragon.

“enough! i will not have you speak such atrocities about your own niece!”

“oh spear me the lecture of the seven, brother!” the hypocrisy to shun him for lusting after his own kin, it has to be the hightower cunt’s doing. feeding lies into her new husband’s head, any means to have his true-blooded targaryen daughters removed from the line to the throne. daemon at last feels himself begin to irk, a scowl engraving itself into his forehead. “your own beloved, your late wife, shared blood with you and you never once objected to bedding her. it is our family’s birthright to keep the blood of the dragon burning hot, not dampen it with that of lesser folk. i mean our parents, for gods’ sake, they were siblings! are you going to tell me it’s wrong?”

“this is not about you being her uncle, daemon. this is about you being you! and her being my sweet girl, one of the last pieces of aemma-”

daemon can’t help himself, flying out of his own seat with the slam of his hand on the table. the pieces rattle under the impact, the white queen toppling over and sending her pawn flying off the board.

“your sweet girl who you let be slandered by the same lords who break bread at your table and drink from your cups!” the prince stands taller than the king, shoulders straight and head held high as he flips positions, becoming the one staring down upon his older brother, who’s slouched and frailer than he once was, hands searching for the steadying hold of the oak table. “tell me, brother, where were you when she drank herself sick as they spoke on her fertility? what did you do when they mocked her for being scared after an attack on her life, in her own chambers!? did you even ask her what happened between us before you shipped her off like cattle to the slaughter, let her tell you it was she who asked it of me? she detested the thought of marrying some unknown lord so much she’d rather destroy her maidenhood and her honour, but you wouldn’t see that, too blinded by your own downfall into becoming a boot-licker for all these cunts who hold land in your realm.”

viserys can only stare, frozen where he stands and eyes widened in bewilderment at his brother’s own outburst, chest heaving in anger and hands shaking with adrenaline as he points towards the king.

“are you in love with her?”

no more than a whisper, so quiet the rogue prince is almost sure he imagines it.

till the king repeats himself.

"gods, don't be ridiculous!" it’s neither a yes nor a no, and daemon is so painfully aware of this, aware that he gives no real answer to your father nor himself.

the concept of love and all it entails has never appealed to the prince, at least in the way it’s presented in song and written of in history. all his life he’d heard of knights who’s lady love was a gem they sought to hold, to sing songs of faithfulness and dance around with hands entwined by marriage. of men who made themselves better, kinder, more gentle, all in the hopes of pleasing their lover and winning her hand. daemon had never experienced such a feeling.

while love is something most feel in their heart, daemon feels it in his loins.

it’s a hunger that consumes his very being, aching, and growling, and demanding to be fed with bursts of passion and shouts of anger. it’s a possession he needs to take, to mark someone as his, in every sense of the words. his to own, his to touch, his to drown in expensive gifts. his love is not kind, but brutal, and loud, and forceful, never leaving room for the rest of the world to doubt it. it makes him want to march into battle, to burn down cities, to spill the blood of any who dare harm the object of his obsession. his love is a fire that burns him from within, spilling out from his skin and scorching everything in it’s path.

the prince is not sure if he wants you to burn in its flames.

“but i could give her a greater life than any other man in this realm.” what he is certain of is that he will not stand by as your father let’s you be ruined by someone other than him. “a good man means nothing if he can not keep her safe, or even happy. at the very least, wedding her to me would mean her husband is someone familiar. she wouldn’t have to leave her home, or change her ways, or even bare a child if she does not wish to.”

viserys sighs, tired body dropping back into his chair and his mangled hand reaches up to brush over his face, pinching the bridge of his nose as his eyes squeeze shut. the prince almost believes he sees a flicker of resignation, winning his brother over at last or exhausting him so deeply he sees no choice but to accept his words as truth, if only to silence him.

instead, the king reaches for the board once more, an airy laugh escaping him as he examines the placement of each piece. leaning over, he sits his queen back up and drums his fingers on the table.

he laughs once more.

"after all these years, daemon, you still struggle to capture my queen."

“but your queen, daemon. the queen is where you hide all your power, look for where your opponent keeps their queen and there you shall find true victory.”

the words of years ago spin round and round in the prince’s head.

his eyes, glued to the board, watch as the king moves his queen out two spaces and captures daemon’s knight, snatching it off the board and tossing it over his shoulder. viserys looks up, awaiting for daemon to continue the match, to put an end to it at last.

but he’s too stuck on the phrasing his brother had used, stubborn in his belief that it’s meaning has little to do with the game upon the table and, rather, the one that’s being played with words and whispers and undisclosed betrothals.

the prince thinks of the queen, the hightower girl who parades around the courts in green silks and upon swollen ankles, face downtrodden each time she foolishly thinks no one is looking. if ever he believed viserys held true affection for her, he’d wonder if she was who the king refers to, if otto hightower had truly been sent back to oldtown empty handed or with a new bride on his arm.

but any fool with a set of eyes can see the king loves his second wife like he loves the iron throne: through duty and obligation.

it is, instead, the late queen aemma who viserys must speak of.

and, while her maiden home, house arryn, where she’d spent her girlhood in the days before she’d been betrothed to her cousin, possesses no lord nor man awaiting a wife, a neighbouring house had just recently named a new wifeless lord.

a house which remembers, especially those who wrong it.

“no…”

i'm where you once where.

“you have to understand, daemon, that the actions you take leave me with consequences to bare. after what happened to lady rhea… after what you done,” his brother, so clearly exhausted with the secrecy and the scheming, folds like a house of cards against a gentle breeze, collapsing further into his seat and shaking his head. he does not notice as daemon moves his own queen along the board. “the vale were at an unease. threatened, was the word they used. so when lord royce staked his claim over his house’s seat, demanding i compensate runestone for the marriage agreement you destroyed and the lady you took from them, i had to give them a show of good faith. i had to reassure them of the longstanding trust between our houses.”

“so you gave her to them, sold her like some slave!”

“i made a political deal!” he attempts to defend himself in both words and on the board. in both, he fails. “one where lord rhoyce gains a bride, i avoid war and my daughter gets to finally take on the duties bestowed upon her at birth.”

“you’re a fucking fool, viserys. you would have been better delivering her to the triarchy. least they would make her death a more swift one. that rhoyce twat’ll have her head on a pike, and her tits and cunt will be hand delivered to you. they’ll slaughter her, as payment for their-” daemon swallows every ill coloured word and expression of his despise that comes to mind at the memory of his bronze bitch, giving no out for his brother to twist this conversation into a matter of his own wrongdoings. “late lady.”

with no more hesitation, the rogue prince moves his queen one last time and delights in watching the white king fall into check.

he knocks the piece over, quietly declaring checkmate.

“brother, please,” the king’s words are as fragile as his health, failing and mute against daemon’s scowling features, which refuse to play nice any longer. “do you think this is what i wanted, for my daughter to be used as a bargaining tool for peace? but there’s no going back, what’s done is done.”

“then undo what is done!”

“how can i when they threaten violence and-”

“you’re the king! who gives a shit what they threaten, they have a dozen men to your thousands. you have dragons! if the threat of fire worked on the men of the vale once, it’ll do so again. so regain your pride and write to that cunt royce. tell him to have your daughter cleaned up and sent back to where she belongs, to find fulfilment in his new lordhood and to drop this notion that he even deserves to gaze upon a targaryen princess, much less stick his shrivelled cock within her. i urge you to send this letter post-haste,” that familiar blade of his sits neatly by the entrance of the chamber, attracting the prince over till he clutches it in his grasp at last, quickly returning dark sister to her rightful spot by his side and discarding the blade he’d stolen from ser criston. he glances back at the king, now risen once more, and twists the doorknob. “and pray, dear brother. pray that it reaches gerold royce before i do.”

with the slam of the door, daemon plunders into the halls of the keep, footsteps heavy and echoing with each one he takes. jaw clenched and hands fisted, he paints the image of a man enraged, sick and fed-up with the games being played.

by the time he reaches his chambers, shoving his way past the sleeping knight at it’s doors, there’s bound to be a flurry of gossiping fools who speak of the prince and his defiling of the king’s commands, but he cares little as he straps himself into leathers and steel, hell-bent on reaching the dragonpit before day breaks and the sun paints the sky alight.

daemon is done sitting idly by, waiting for the king to see reason.

because while at the age of five, naive and easily influenced, daemon targaryen had looked up to his chess-genius of a brother, it was at age five and ten that he realised why his brother kept winning, why pawns and knights and rooks would conveniently move to the places he needed them to be.

he cheated.

#daemon targaryen smut #house of the dragon smut #daemon targaryen x reader #daemon targaryen fluff #daemon targaryen fic #daemon targaryen oneshot #daemon targaryen imagine

740 notes · View notes